


Unsteady

by FidotheFinch



Series: Tumblr Prompts [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, fear toxin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 02:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidotheFinch/pseuds/FidotheFinch
Summary: He can’t get off the floor of the bathroom. The tile is freezing, but that’s not what makes him shake.He squeezes his eyes shut, but they fly open against when he realizes he needs something to ground him. He finds the crack in the ceiling paint again and tries to focus on it.Anything’s better than the sopping wet, headless mobster hovering in the doorway to the bathroom.





	Unsteady

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ayzenigma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayzenigma/gifts).

> For ayzenigma, who requested "Don't touch me!" with Jason over on tumblr. Thanks for the prompt! :)  
Fair warning, the fear toxin tag makes for some disturbing imagery.

He had thought he had gotten his helmet on in time. He’d never tasted the bitter gas, and his chest never did that all-too-familiar hitch when the chemical hit his lungs. He had the audacity to smirk, expression hidden by the faceless red façade, when he shot rubber bullets into Scarecrow’s chest.

But he’s not smirking now.

He can’t get off the floor of the bathroom. The tile is freezing, but that’s not what makes him shake.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but they fly open against when he realizes he needs _something _to ground him. He finds the crack in the ceiling paint again and tries to focus on it.

Anything’s better than the sopping wet, headless mobster hovering in the doorway to the bathroom.

“You’re not real,” Jason whispers. Then he shakes his head. No use telling the hallucination that. He looks harder at the crack in the ceiling. “It’s not real,” he reminds himself.

The mobster doesn’t move; Jason can hear water dripping onto his floor. He grimaces at the idea; that’s water from Gotham’s harbor, and the smell will linger in here for. . .

“Not real,” he reminds himself, again. Charles “The Ox” Barroway was dead at the bottom of the harbor, and he had been that way for almost three years now. His body was probably decomposed past recognition now. (Except the head. That had been shoved in a duffle bag and left at the feet of a rival drug lord).

Jason takes a deep breath. Without the antidote sitting on the sink—three feet too high for him to feasibly reach right now—it will take a few hours for the toxin to run its course. If he’s lucky, it’s one of the older strains that isolates the fear from the sympathetic nervous system’s response, and he won’t have to worry about a heart attack.

The crack in the ceiling warps briefly before snapping back into place. He blinks in confusion.

It sounds like something thumps on the other side of the ceiling, and then something else shifts. A bit of dust falls down through the crack.

His eyes widen.

Another thump. More dirt falls, and this time Jason catches sight of a clump of grass before the soil lands on his chest.

He bites his tongue. More dirt falls through, landing on an arm. Shovel-full by shovel-full. The paint cracks and peels away to reveal the empty sky above him.

It’s not real. It’s not real.

He can see the shovel now, in glimpses as it tosses the dirt over his prone form. He can’t move; he can’t open his mouth to scream when a clump of dirt with a worm wriggling through it lands on his face.

Cold fingers touch his arm. He jolts, pulling away and turning to stare at the beheaded figure floating next to him.

“Jason,” it moans. The sound comes up from somewhere in the viscera of its neck.

Jason gasps in a shallow breath. Dirt lands in his mouth and he gags at the foul taste. “You’re not real.”

The fingers wrap around his arm again, this time with a bruising grip.

“Don’t touch me!”

Jason weakly tries to pry his arm away, but the hold stays firm. He sputters as more dirt gets up his nose and down his throat. The headless figure leans in to hiss in his ear but he can’t make out words over the sound of his own heartbeat.

There’s a pinch in his bicep, and Jason doesn’t remember this mobster having talons but maybe it’s just the exposed, decayed tips of his bony fingers digging into his skin. The dirt stops falling, but only because he’s already mostly buried.

Jason squeezes his eyes shut now, teeth grit against the acrid flavor of clay and soil in his mouth. “Don’t touch me,” he tries again.

The grip on his arm loosens, but doesn’t let go.

It isn’t until a full minute after he’s resigned to his death that Jason realizes he can breathe again. He gasps another lungful of air, and to his surprise the weight of dirt on his chest and down his throat has disappeared. The hand on his arm loosens more, and then softly brushes up toward his neck, where familiar fingers rest against his pulse point.

Jason works his tongue inside his mouth, steeling himself. He opens his eyes.

“Bruce?”

“I’m here,” he assures, in a warm rumble. “You’re okay, Jason. Just breathe for me.”

When Jason blinks, the cowl fizzles into a twisted nightmare and back again. “Why’re you here?”

“For you.”

It isn’t the answer he expects—he wants to know if the man had gotten tracking devices on him again, or worse, biosensors—but he finds he doesn’t care for the moment. “Oh.”

“Can you sit up?”

Jason tries experimenting with movement, and finds his limbs aren’t locked to the floor anymore. He uses his elbows to pry himself up.

An empty syringe sits in the corner of his bathroom. He recognizes it as his antidote. “Thanks,” he mutters. A gloved hand swoops down to help him rise to his feet, but he bats it away. “No, don’t. . . don’t touch me.”

Batman’s shoulders stiffen. A seed of guilt plants itself in Jason’s stomach, but he can’t shake the feeling of the corpse’s phantom hands dragging him down. He tries rubbing his hands up and down his arms to combat the sensation.

He startles with the sound of the cape unfurling. It settles down around his shoulders, and the smell of Kevlar and Bruce’s shampoo takes Jason back to a time when he was much, much smaller. The weight of it settles his nerves, and he lets his hands fall slack with relief.

Bruce pulls back his cowl. His face is etched with deep lines of worry. “Okay?”

Jason nods.

Bruce sighs, turning to sit next to Jason, but far enough away they aren’t touching. “It will take about an hour for the antidote to work completely. I need to—” he glances sideways at Jason and away again. “Someone needs to monitor your pulse and breathing for that time. Do you want me to call someone else?”

Jason lets his head thump back against the wall. He takes a moment, considering who is close and who he feels comfortable with. His tongue swipes around his lips before he answers, “No.”

The tension leaves Bruce’s shoulders. “Okay.” He settles himself more firmly on the floor, leaning back against the wall to mirror Jason’s posture. “Okay.”

There’s nothing to say while they sit. Jason blinks at his shower, across the small room, watching it fade in and out of focus as the toxin tries to take over his vision again. The clicking of the ceiling fan in the other room keeps a steady rhythm, and Jason uses it to help time his breathing so it remains even.

The urge to be afraid slowly ebbs away, leaving bone-deep exhaustion. Jason has to scoot a little, but when he tilts his head lands on Bruce’s shoulder. The man’s breath hitches.

Jason yawns. “I think it’s been an hour now, old man.”

Bruce only hums in acknowledgement. He doesn’t move to leave.

A tiny smile slips onto Jason’s face, and he drifts off into a peaceful sleep.


End file.
